


If Drunk, Do Not Attempt Marrying ZITHER! (or: The Boot Hunt)

by salamanderssmile



Series: They are agents [1]
Category: DAIMP - Fandom, Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: DAIMP, Developing Relationship, Gen, Hilarity, Inquisition Agents (Dragon Age), Inquisition Multiplayer, Referenced Drinking, hangovers, it's really just nerds being nerds, nothing really shippy tho, sort of like the Hangover it's intentional, yet ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-21
Updated: 2016-03-21
Packaged: 2018-05-28 01:28:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6308869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/salamanderssmile/pseuds/salamanderssmile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Waking up hangover and without a boot is bad enough. Having to hunt down said boot barefoot is a lot worse.</p>
<p>Hall thinks friends make it better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If Drunk, Do Not Attempt Marrying ZITHER! (or: The Boot Hunt)

**Author's Note:**

> hi!!! this is the first work of, hopefully, many. i absolutely adore the daimp characters, and writing them is just a joy. hope you all enjoy it.

If Drunk, Do Not Attempt Marrying Zither

Or

The Boot Hunt

 

In hindsight, perhaps his day's start was a sign of what was to come.

Hall woke up not really sure of where he was, how he got there, or why his left boot was missing. To be fair with him, the terrible headache and serious case of cotton tongue were a little distracting. Wherever he was, it was also very bright. Terribly bright. He was considering rolling over when a blessed soul stopped the bright.

“Hall.” perhaps the soul was not blessed, because that was too loud. “What are you doing here?”

Through the nausea and headache, the archer recognized the voice of the person standing above him. “Cillian, not now.” he said. Or tried to say. It most likely sounded like “Keeluhn, nuhuh nuh.”. Can't have all.

“You were at the party yesterday, weren't you?” Now, Hall was almost certain he could nod, but he wasn't certain of the answer. “Ah, you and Neria. Come on, let's get you something to drink.”

Hall didn't want to drink anything. His body hurt, his head hurt, his stomach was rolling, and Cillian was attempting to murder him. Well, perhaps not, but the elf's efforts to help him sit up were painful. They hurt. Hall was hurting.

Unsurprisingly, Cillian got him up on two feet in less than five minutes (that was a record, not even his mother managed that, back in the day). The old elf was too strong. Hall opened his eyes to a spinning ground covered in grass. Where  _ was _ here, anyway? Perhaps he should ask Cillian. After he was sitting down again, though. He felt very unstable.

 

Ten minutes and two tankards of water later, sitting down at the table by the forge, Hall decided he was never drinking again. Then decided that maybe on occasion. When everyone's at the Herald's Rest. Even if they did that frequently. Neria arrived a minute later, sitting down to sulk on a seat nearby. For once, they looked at each other with the same expression: pity, sympathy, and fear of the unknown. At least the Herald's was still up and running. So that was good.

Once they were deemed fit to see the sunlight again (and had already suffered enough under Cillian's disapproving stare), they exited the room filling in quickly with blacksmiths and apprentices. Neria seemed sterner than usual, but that was hardly his foremost concern. Hall's boot was still missing. He wanted –  _ needed – _ that boot. His socks were white. He hated – still hates – washing socks. But most of all, as anyone in Skyhold, Hall also hated going through requisitions.

“What is it with you right now? Why are you looking around as if Fen'harel was chasing you?” Neria asked upon noticing his restless look around. Hall had never liked the Dread Wolf. Mostly because he didn’t like wolves - or, maybe, it was the other way around.

“My boot. I lost it last night, I think.” He answered the elven mage, pointing to his right foot.

“I... remember something about a bet. You should ask to the dwarf at the tavern.” Neria said, frown softening just a fraction. Nice. “I, for one, will return to the garden. With any luck, the Chantry Mother won't bother me, today.”

And just like that, there she went. Away. And he stared after her like the crushing fool he was. Well, he couldn't have it all. But he  _ could _ have his boot, and with any luck, recover any dignity lost in the previous night. So Hall sneaked into the tavern – “sneaked” being a very appropriate word as he did not, in fact, want people to notice his missing shoe. He slipped onto one of the stools in front of the bar. The tavern was already packed, even that early in the morning. Hadn't Zither once said the best cure for a hangover was to just keep drinking? Or was that Isabela? Or The Iron Bull?

“Kid, you're back here! How's that hangover treating you?” Cabot asked. Hall vividly recalled him being the night shift. Everyday. He wasn't sure the dwarf slept at all, by now.

“Cillian helped.” The archer answered shortly, with not much else to say. “Do you know where I can find my boot? I woke up without it.”

“You sure are a light weight. Don't remember anything that happened last night?” Was the bartender's rather unhelpful reply.

“I... don't recall much, no.” Hall frowned, there was something. “We'd just come back from a successful field mission. Me, Rion, Neria and Belinda. Isabela and Thornton said we should celebrate. So we came here and...”

“And you drank. A lot. As in  _ “I think the Chargers drink less in a month than you did yesterday” _ a lot.” Cabot supplied when the rogue's narrative faltered. At least now Hall knew why he didn't remember much of last night. He recalled lots singing, though. And he remembered looking for a Chantry sister, too. He hoped this just meant he sang too much of the Chant of Light for a single night. With his luck, someone died and they had to set up the funeral. “You all got out after you were piss drunk. You were one noisy little crowd, let me tell ya.”

“Thanks.” Hall said, getting up from the stool. Not that he had much to thank for: he still had no idea where to go to find his boot.

“If you still don't know where that boot is, I'd find that mage friend of yours. The Circle one, not the elven one. You and him were hatching a plan for something, as far as I noticed. Hard to say with Tamar and that Avvar blocking the view.” Cabot said a little too loud for a tavern that early in the morning. The archer was half certain it was on purpose.

 

Hall walked around the battlements searching for Rion, but the mage didn't seem to be there. Weird, he usually was. Next place he went to was the library, but while there were a lot of mages – and crows, and Argent – there was no sign of Rion whatsoever. He thought of asking the Assassin where their colleague could be, but he was... honestly, he was scared. Argent scared him. Running out of ideas, the archer headed for the tower where most of the mages would stay during the day. Maybe it was luck, but his friend was there, hunched over a table in a dark corner with a miserable look about him. Someone couldn't do with hangovers.

Hall stepped lightly up to the mage, an activity made more difficult without his boot. “Rion?” He murmured, not wanting to make a bad hangover worse.

The mage answered with a pained moan, weakly looking up from his arms to see who was addressing him. Hall noticed his eyes were red, as well as his cheeks. “Hall? What are you doing here?” Rion said, voice muffled by his arms. “Did I do something stupid last night? Like try to set something on fire?”

Hall smiled at that: drunk Rion seemed a lot like he'd imagined. “No, Cabot said you might help me find my boot.” The archer sat next to Rion on the bench as the mage buried his face in his arms again.

“Oh, well, I don't remember what really happened to it, but you gave it to me at some point. Something about it being a gift?” Rion slowly sat straight, to look Hall in the eye. “It involved someone getting married. We didn't get married, did we?”

“I don't... I don't think so, no.” Hall answered, hoping he wasn't blushing. He was, but then, so was Rion, so that wasn't that bad, right?

The mage looked down at the table and then back up to him again. “Oh, that's good, then, I suppose.” He stood, balancing himself with a hand on the table. “I'll help you search for your boot... Soon as I'm sure I won't puke my intestines out.”

Rion really did look a little green, so Hall let him take his time. They went out again by mid-morning, and Hall stepped on a cold puddle while they headed for the battlements. He felt himself die inside a little at that. They were trying to find Belinda at Rion's suggestion, and Hall had seen her up there earlier in the morning. Luckily, she was  _ still _ there, chirpy and talkative as always. Sidony was with her, and Luka, too. Hall was surprised the nevarran necromancer hadn't killed someone yet. As soon as the pair approached them, Belinda waved and smiled. Shouldn't she be with a hangover, too? Lucky bastard.

“Hall! Rion! Good morning!” The templar had a strong Starkhaven accent. She also made Rion and Neria twitch sometimes. “Where's your boot, Hall? Amund didn't give it to the Nuggalope, now, did he?”

Hall waited until he was by her side to answer: “I'm... actually searching for it, right now. I don't really remember what happened yesterday.”

“I'm not surprised, you drank like the world was coming to an end.” Sidony scorned.

“I think you drank more than Korbin! And that's saying a lot!” Luka complemented, enthusiastic as ever. Some would think months trapped underground would make someone gloomy, but then, they probably hadn't met the dwarven alchemist.

“Uh, thanks, I suppose.” The archer replied. He didn't know if that was a compliment or not, but he'd rather not be impolite.

“You said something about Amund, Belinda? I remember Hall gave me his boot, but not much else.” Rion said after a moment of silence. Good thing Hall brought him along, he'd have just quit the conversation by now.

“Yeah! You gave the boot to him when got out of the tavern. He and Zither were planning something, but I went to sleep after that. You should ask him where it is!” Belinda exclaimed happily. It wasn't even noon, how  _ was _ she that happy, anyway?

“Thank you, Belinda.” Hall replied with a small smile, already turning around and waving goodbye. His foot was very cold.

 

Finding the Avvar wasn't that hard. You just had to search for the largest human in a room at any given time. Also, because he liked to stand on high places to, as he put it, watch the sky. Hall didn't know much of the Avvar, but that seemed as valid a goal as any for him. The archer soon spotted the warrior standing on the scaffolding by the main keep's kitchen's entrance. They went up the stairs, and Hall prayed him and Rion weren't going to be in the way of the kitchen staff. Their boss was terrifying.

“Amund!” The mage called, making the Avvar look down at them. Without further prompting, the rather large man climbed down from his post.

“What calls you here, my little friends?” Amund asked. He really was tall. Very tall. Hall thought it was uncalled for to be that tall.

“I lost my boot, yesterday. We thought you might help me find it.” Hall replied, looking up at the warrior's face.

“Well, now, of course I know where it is! You gave it to me as a wedding gift.” Amund pointed at Rion while saying that. Rion, however, just looked even more thoroughly confused.

“We... You're not saying we were going to get married, now, are you? 'Cause I'll really have to call that off, if that's the case.” The mage stammered out, blushing a deep red while switching his gaze from the Avvar to the rogue beside him.

That... made Amund laugh. A thunderous sound that seemed to echo inside Hall's head. He hoped Rion's headache had already gotten better by now, for the mage's own sake. “Of course not, little one! Me and our drunken singing friend were going to get married. He tied my band with four knots, and I only managed to undo three of them, so we're getting married for a year.” Amund acted like those were common news, like the ones you'd give over a friendly dinner to “break the ice”. That was how the expression went, anyway, wasn't it?

“I... see. So, where would my boot be, now?” Hall asked, since Rion seemed too mortified to do it. Amund and Zither together wouldn't be  _ that _ bad, now, would they? Sure, Zither would probably use the Avvar as a walking stage, but he already acted like the world was that, so nothing would change, really.

“Well, with my little drunken friend, obviously.” Amund then stopped to tap his chin. “Though I don't know where he went. After we couldn't convince anyone to marry us, he said he was going to 'experiment my natural habitat'. I don't know what he meant by that, but he went up that tower of yours, little one. I went to sleep after that.” The Avvar once again referred himself to Rion, who frowned and then opened his eyes wide.

“What is it, Rion?”

“The senior enchan-- The mages in the tower lock the ceiling's trapdoor after the last one leaves.”

 

As the two young men ran across Skyhold to rescue their colleague – and Amund came along, just to see what was going to happen – Hall found himself hoping the singer hadn't freezed to death. Zither sure could be too much at times, but he was nice to have around. He knew the funniest drinking games. As the three of them crossed the garden, Hall really hoped Zither hadn't drunkenly dropped his boot down the battlements. As it was, once they got to the tower's last, unoccupied floor – after shocking many innocent mages in the tower as they sped past them – they heard someone talking on the other side. Amund went up first, if only by virtue of only having to climb half as many steps as Rion and Hall. The archer came up second, helping his friend up onto the tower's battlements. Zither really was there, sitting against a wall complaining about the cold to himself. Hall really was surprised he hadn't died, with how much the wind blew up there.

“My friends! You've come to rescue me!” The singer exclaimed, in his usual dramatic tone. “Now that I am saved, I can return to my normal schedule of gracing the Inquisition with my music! Come on, my gigantic friend, we have places to be and liquor to drink!”

And just like that, Zither got up and marched past them, Amund in toll, stopping for just a second to shove Hall's boot towards him. He complained about the leather's quality. Hall didn't really mind, he didn't expect the orleisian Virtuoso would be pleased by his hunter's boots. In less than a minute, Hall and Rion were left alone on the battlements, only hearing the chaos Zither wreaked wherever he went. Hall's boot had a hole in the sole he didn't remember being there the day before. So he really would have to go through requisitions for a new pair. The whole morning's hunt was for naught. He normally would be very disappointed, but Rion was still holding his hand from when he helped him up the ladder.

So that was alright.


End file.
